


The Only Star In The Sky Is You

by allisontrash



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-21 02:35:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10675911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allisontrash/pseuds/allisontrash
Summary: story i wrote for ryans english class





	The Only Star In The Sky Is You

Ryan stared at the cold cup of coffee in his hands. His fluffy short black hair blew in the breeze, let in by the windows of the small coffee shop, Charlie’s. It was rather murky outside. Puddles of thick water splayed all over the sidewalk. Ten AM walks were something people told him “got him used to” California. It really didn’t. He’d been living here for about a year. Getting drenched in the sky’s tears wasn’t an ideal way to spend the week. It always seemed so gloomy, to be in a place where you’re supposedly supposed to soak up the sunshine.  
Ryan stared out into the distance from inside Charlie’s, ignoring his croissant that went cold. His jacket was all wet from running two blocks to Charlie’s. It was better than the local coffee shop, with unfriendly workers and insincere vibes filling up his mind. He was just so tired. Being an artist is harder than it looks. Ever since Ryan was a little boy, he was different than all the other kids. His so called friends laughed at him when he said he wanted to pursue a career in art. It wasn’t just as simple as taking a brush and paint and moving your hands around. It’s like how music isn’t just putting your fingers to the keys and slamming down. It’s about all the little details you put in it. Like how poetry isn’t just words in a sentence. It’s all the things in your mind that you feel with your heart.  
So far, being an artist was okay for him. He had everything he needed and wanted, but something just felt missing from the equation.  
Springtime always seemed to be the saddest time of the year, even though his birthday was in the heart of Spring. He never painted during these months, and he almost always just sat at home watching reruns of TV shows he’d seen a thousand times, cuddling with his cats. And even his cats left him sometimes. The coffee had gone bitter in an instant with all these thoughts. He groaned, and tossed it into the trash. “Sorry Trish, I just can’t deal with bitter things.” he said, running a pale hand through his hair. Trish was the lady who ran the shop; her husband and founder of the small shop, Charlie, had passed away a few months back. Their daughter Charlotte was always playing with the other kids in the neighborhood. She had dark brown curls and bright green eyes, the spitting image of Charlie. It was so sad to see that that girl is going to grow up without one of the people that were supposed to love her the most. But not all things work out they way they should. There’s never going to be a perfect equilibrium in the world. Trish smiled, with her big black hair moving with her. “It’s fine, Ryan. God bless,” she said as Ryan walked out.

“Where is the world gonna take me today?” Ryan whispered. He took a moment to smell the petrichor. The earthy scent never ceased to calm his nerves. He looked around the neighborhood. All the houses looked exactly the same. All the children were playing outside, games like Red Rover and Double Dutch. “Red rover, red rover, send Lucille right over!” The laughs of the little kids filled in with the music playing. He could faintly recognize the tune from a block away, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun by Cyndi Lauper. The small boys and girls were shouting at the top of their lungs, “Oh, daddy dear, you’re still number one, but girls just wanna have fun.”  
Through the cracks of the sidewalk, he could see little plants growing out of the Earth. It reminds him of how simple his childhood used to be.  
In what seemed like no time, Ryan had sped through two whole blocks, back to his apartment. He struggled looking for the keys, even though he only had three keys in his pocket. He groaned in frustration, finally sinking against the door in defeat. He spent about five or ten minutes on the ground before trying again. The first key he picked out worked. He took off his jacket and crumpled onto the couch in his black t-shirt. He didn’t even feel like taking off his skinny jeans or dirty black boots. He just laid there, observing the apartment. There was such a mess on the floor, but it was an “organized” mess. Meaning, he could sort through it all in a millisecond. “Where are my cats?” he wondered. As soon as he said that, he heard a faint meow from his room. Ryan sighed. “It’s only eleven AM and I feel so tired,” he said, moving over to his easel. “Like, that’s not normal. Even remotely.” Dried up paint stained his smock, because aprons are way too basic for Ryan. The only apron he had anyways was one that was all covered in dried up cake batter. He looked at his other works, and sighed. He named them things like Martyrdom, Camisado, Tables, etc. He had a taste for the unusual. The favorite color in his arsenal was a deep red, that he named Miriam.  
Lately, Ryan’s world was seemingly in black and white. Like everything was half finished. Everyone seemed to have what made them strong and what made them weak, their counterpart. “Ugh, my art sucks.” he said, staring at his blank white canvas. “Are you taunting me?” Ryan sneered. He groaned, and picked up his paint palette. He had a good start, and for a few minutes, thought he’d defeated artist’s block. He had a purple and green monarch butterfly, with a red undertoned blue background. He stood away from his easel and canvas, squinting his bright blue eyes. His watchful gaze had snapped into desperation, mixed in with irritability. He ran back up to the canvas and ripped the rough paper from the grip of the easel. Ryan promptly tossed it in the trash. He plopped back down on his fluffy couch, and eased off his boots. He changed into a white t-shirt and black sweatpants. He looked around in his room, and found his earbuds. It was one PM by this point, and the sun finally shone brightly. He looked out his window, and saw kids playing outside. Hopscotching, running, playing tag, street hockey, rollerblading, or just being active in general with their friends. He hadn’t even bothered trying to make more friends after moving to California. He was socially anxious and awkward, barely being able to mumble more than a few words before biting his nails and walking away. They were bitten down to nubs, some longer than others on his slender fingers. He was always hiding his pale hands, in his pockets or ruffling through his hair. 

Ryan was all but calm, his thoughts had been wringing at his neck for ages. He felt sullen and his hands were shaky. His hair looked disheveled and he felt like just dropping to the floor. He took in a deep breath. He could barely make tea, or walk over and close the curtains. He walked over to the window, and The yellow sun was shining into his deep blue orbs, and he could feel the warm sunshine dancing on his skin. Particles of sun danced in the wind, onto his nose and face. He just felt like everything wasn’t real enough.

Later that night, Ryan laid awake in his bed. The sheets were too thick, and he felt like he was being smothered. He groaned as he kicked them off, and turned in bed. Ryan was getting sick of those reruns of cartoons at four AM. He stared up at the ceiling. In the dark, everything seemed scarier and more menacing. Ryan would never, ever admit that he was afraid of the dark. As a kid, he always slept with the lights on. Did it make him abnormal? A little bit. But he thought it wouldn’t be a problem when he grew up. But, boy, Ryan was wrong. He could deal with it, but he was extremely paranoid of what could happen. He could step on a thumbtack, slip on a t-shirt, bump into a wall, or even worse, stub his toe. He was too lazy to turn on the light, so he just used his phone as a flashlight. 

He never really had dreams either. Every once in awhile he would dream about nonsensical things, smart things, or just random thoughts all in a cluster.

As he walked into the kitchen to make tea, his sleepless night go-to beverage, he remembered he had dreamt. He had dreamt of an angel, a beautiful angel. Light seemed to radiate from her downy soft dark brown hair. The freckles sprinkled across her face, her huge with wings encasing him in warmth. Her soft hazel eyes smiled down at him with comfort and protection. In that dream he felt calm, she had told him everything was gonna be alright. Her voice was deep, but feminine and soft. Ryan believed her. He didn't want to let her go.  
Even though it was the middle of the night, he finished his tea, flipped on the lights and got to painting. It took him hours to get the freckles in the right places, the eyes to shine like hers did, her hair to fall in such a delicate matter across her wings. The background was simple, the edges were black and the rest were variating pastel and dark shades of pinks, blues, purples, and whites, creating the sky, clouds and moon, as if the light around the angel fought off the deep, dark abyss.  
By the time he had finished the sun had risen, and he was full of pride. Something he hadn't felt in awhile. Ryan marveled at what he had created. The beautiful brunette angel was the center of Ryan's masterpiece. Her skin was near porcelain, beautiful and soft. Her eyes were bright hazel, showcasing her emotions and complex thoughts. Her lips were soft and the color of strawberry taffy, perfectly pouted. The way she carried herself, feminine and beautiful yet elegant and dreamlike. Her tan freckles were the color of fresh summer sand, dusting her nose and cheeks. Her nose was button-like; small and slightly upturned. Her cheeks were rosy and light, carrying her childlike rosy blush. She was dressed in a white gown, with lace and delicate buttons placed on her chest and back. Her wings were perfectly white, slightly fading into gray corners.  
Ryan knew this angel was beautiful; inside and out. He always wanted to feel like he did when she was holding him. A feeling of pure happiness and love.  
Ryan contacted his friend Spencer at the art gallery, and got it on display. He was praised for it, so many people enjoyed it. He didn’t understand why people liked it; but he didn’t question it. As time went on more and more people heard of it, and he had named it ‘The Only Star In The Sky is You’. Every corner he turned on to, there were people pretending to be this angel. They just wanted him to notice them. They were just so annoying, seeing as Ryan was searching for the angel, but it seemed impossible; as every time he looked up there was another imposter.  
Ryan walked down a barren street, the only place he could be alone. He enjoyed the solitude of this street, and he cherished the silence that he was afraid to break as he walked with soft feet. This place was silent and forgotten to all but a few. He entered a bookstore as silent and forgotten as the street. The smell of paper and books hung over him, the taupe shelves were filled, not many came here, it was a wonder it was still running. He could see only one person here. The silence was even more comforting in this warm, nice smelling, cozy little shop. The other person in the store was absolutely silent, not even her footsteps could be heard. He browsed books from authors he had heard of and some he hadn’t , J.K. Rowling, DJ Machale. He sighed, his eyes wandering over to the girl, with her soft hazel eyes, her delicate brown almost black hair, the freckles dusted across her nose, and her lips perfectly formed the small smile that seemed so familiar. “You look familiar. Have we met before?” Ryan quietly spoke.  
She turned towards Ryan’s small frame. Ryan was afraid that she was mad that he broke the ambient silence. “No, probably not,” she giggled. Her laugh was melodious, deep and warm. “I just moved here from Jersey. I’m new in town.” Ryan smiled. He noticed there were a few books, some journals, pens and pencils in her shopping basket. She was bright, bubbly, and full of life. “You just look like someone I saw once. I wondered if it was you,” Ryan ran a hand through his hair. “Gosh, she’s so beautiful.” Ryan thought. “But that’s nice. Do you come here often?” he said. “Yeah, it’s like a little piece of home. It’s so cozy and small here, and I can buy art supplies. It’s really weird how I get over my writer’s block here. I usually can’t even write with music on, but I’ve grown used to the type they play here. It’s so calming and simple.” she said, playing with her fingers. Ryan could see stars in her eyes. Constellations forming out of scar lines on her arms. She was smiling wide and bright; and her cheeks seemed to glow coral pink. “It’s good to get away from everyone for a little. Ever since this painting went on display in the museum, people have been telling me I look exactly like the angel from the picture,” she sighed. Ryan felt a pang of sadness as the smile faded from her pale face. “I love the painting itself; and I can’t deny I’m definitely in love with the artist. Whoever they are. But people are saying it’s me. It’s not. That painting makes the angel look happy and beautiful. Peaceful and calm. I’m anything but. I am ugly. I am sad. I am a mess. I am not the image of beauty. I am a disaster. Some days I can't even wake up. I stay up all night with hideous things corrupting my mind. That is not beauty. Beauty is being able to accept your fatal flaws, your strong traits and weak ones. Beauty is finding true happiness, and being able to function properly. Beauty is the ability to get over your sadness and bad thoughts. I am not beautiful - not in the slightest.”


End file.
